


across the universe

by ell (amywaited)



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Cute, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, Lesbian Beverly Marsh, M/M, Pining, and also a little shit, bev is amazing, realising theyre in love, richies in a band, stan is RICH and SUCCESSFUL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 14:24:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amywaited/pseuds/ell
Summary: “I really fancy you,” he says, putting on a voice, the fancy British one like he’s on Downtown Abbey.“That’s nice, Rich,” Stan says. He taps the enter key twice with his little finger. The tiny gold ring he wears on it blurs as he moves. Richie can’t stop looking at it.“I’m madly in love with you,” Richie says. He moves the coffee mug on Stan’s desk slightly out of alignment just so he can watch Stan reach over to move it back, absently, like he doesn’t even need to think about it.“Mmh-mmmh.”“Sometimes I think you don’t listen to a word I say.”“Hm?” Stan says. He jabs at the period key and turns to face Richie. “What were you saying?”Richie feels his heart sink.





	across the universe

**Author's Note:**

> cw: pining, dumbass gays, mentions & descriptions of vomit, controversial opinions on friends (the sitcom), alcohol mentions, and a little bit of making out. enjoy!
> 
> [heres a song, if u like](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90M60PzmxEE)

“Stan,” Richie says, watching Stan tap a hundred million numbers into his computer. He couldn’t dream of understanding it at all, but watching Stan’s fingers blur as they type and the rings he wears flicker against the artificial sort of light (the one that makes everyone look horribly grey and sickly), makes Richie think that he doesn’t need to understand it as long as he can watch. “I really fancy you,” he finishes, putting on a voice, the fancy British one like he’s on Downtown Abbey. Its the one that Stan says he hates but doesn’t actually. 

“That’s nice, Rich,” Stan says. He taps the enter key twice with his little finger. The tiny gold ring he wears on it blurs as he moves. Richie can’t stop looking at it. 

“I’m madly in love with you,” Richie says. He moves the coffee mug on Stan’s desk slightly out of alignment just so he can watch Stan reach over to move it back, absently, like he doesn’t even need to think about it. 

“Mmh-mmmh.”

“Sometimes I think you don’t listen to a word I say.”

“Hm?” Stan says. He jabs at the period key and turns to face Richie. “What were you saying?”

Richie feels his heart sink. “Doesn’t matter. You gonna let me take you out to dinner tonight?”

Stan scoffs. “We both know I’ll be the one paying,” he says, and Richie doesn’t dispute it because its true. Playing gigs with a shit band at the local bar and selling the odd foot picture doesn’t pay as well as being the CEO of your own accounting firm, he’s come to realise. “But sure. I’ll bite.”

“Awesome. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Stan makes a face. “ _ I’ll  _ pick  _ you  _ up at seven, actually. The day I get into your death trap of a car is the day I lose every slice of dignity I still have.”

Really, Richie takes offence to that. Sure, his red second hand Kia is a bit bashed up and… well, tattered, but Bev says it gives it character. So what if the engine makes an ugly grumbly noise when he pushes it above fifty? It hasn’t failed him yet. 

Although Stan  _ does  _ drive a pristine white Volkswagen (he’s one of the only people Richie has ever known to be able to keep a white car perfectly clean - just like Stan keeps everything he owns, really), and the air con does actually work. So Richie doesn’t complain. At least, not that much. 

“My car is not a death trap,” he says, “but fine. Beverly’s got a hot date tonight so she won’t be home.”

“I still can’t believe Bev agreed to room with you,” Stan says. “Anyway, fuck off. I have another three hours until I have to see you again and I plan to take full advantage of them.”

“Ouch, Stan. Tell me how you really feel,” Richie says, but he stands up obediently. “Hey, did you get a new ring?”

Stan frowns at his hand. There’s a chunky gold ring on his left middle finger, with a pretty green stone in the middle. Richie doesn’t know enough about jewels to identify it. “Oh, yeah. Sapphire. Cool, right?”

“Matches your eyes,” Richie says. “But I thought sapphires were blue?”

“There’s loads of colours of sapphire,” Stan says, “this is green sapphire.”

“Well, then, fuck yeah, it’s cool. I never would have pegged you for someone who suits rings, but you fucking rock ‘em, Stan.”

“So you say. Thanks,” Stan chuckles. He twists the ring around his finger. “I don’t know. I just think this one is cool.”

“It is,” Richie says. “I bet you have more rings than Bev at this point.”

“Bev doesn’t wear jewelry.”

“She has like a million earrings.”

“So do you,” Stan points out. Richie fiddles with the hoops in his ears bashfully.

He’d pierced his lobes for the first time at home, tipsy, on a dare. Eddie had freaked, lectured him about safety and made him promise to never do it again. (Until the next time, when he went into a piercing shop on a whim and got his seconds, an industrial, and his smiley done). Eddie had freaked out, again, but when he realised they’d been done professionally, had begrudgingly agreed that they did look sort of cool. 

“You know, I’m thinking about stretching,” Richie says, mostly just to see Stan’s face. One of his sort of bandmates has 0G gauges and Richie can barely keep his eyes off them. Bev keeps trying to get him to start, if only to stop him talking about it. 

“Wait, really?!”

“Yu-huh.”

His mouth folds into a considering smirk. “I say do it. I bet you’d look cool.”

“Ya think?”

“I think,” Stan agrees. “Now fuck off. I really do have work to do.”

“Whatever you say, Staniel. See you at seven?” Richie says. He salutes, picking up his hoodie and hooking the hood over his head. 

“Seven,” Stan says. He reaches out to tug the sleeves over Richie’s arms, and then shoves him towards the door. “Now go, for real.”

“Don’t be late,” Richie sing-songs, hand on the handle. 

Stan snorts. “What, or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”

“You never know,” Richie says, and then he pulls open the door and leaves, closing it on Stan’s laughter. 

The office block he works out of is kind of a maze, and Richie isn’t really supposed to be there that often, so he takes the stairs instead of the elevator. Stan had given him a fancy security badge so he wouldn’t get stopped and accused of being a robber, or a squatter, or something, but it’s not half as fun sliding down the stair railings to get away from security guards. As much as Stan hates it. 

He heads out onto the street, trying to look as much like he belongs there as everyone else does, even though he’s in scruffy Docs and ripped Levis and one of Bev’s shirts, probably, and they’re all wearing three piece suits with velvet pocket squares and shoes polished to within an inch of their life. He’s had a lot of practice at pretending to fit in, but failed musician and successful accountant have more differences than most professions. 

#

Seven comes around sooner than he expected it to, but Richie doesn’t mind. It beats watching Great British Bake off on Netflix and telling Bev to be home by midnight. Stan knocks on their apartment door like a real gentlemen, and Richie makes sure to tell him so, with a suggestive wink that may or may not be a joke. 

“Guess you decided to dress up, huh?” he says, eyeing the green tie Stan has switched out for striped blue one he had been wearing earlier. He still has his suit on, but he’s toeing the line between business and business casual in the way that he’s somehow managed to master. 

“Please. This is hardly dressing up,” Stan says. “Just because you seem to dress down all the time.” He makes a face at the rips in Richie’s jeans. 

“It’s all part of my rock and roll chic,” Richie says. “You ready to go?”

“Is rock and roll chic what you’re calling it these days?” Stan asks, leading the way towards the elevator. “I remember when it was rejected emo.”

“That is deeply offensive to emos and rejected emos alike,” Richie says. He presses the button on the elevator, and Stan chuckles. 

“You’re not denying it, though.”

“Yeah, well,” Richie shrugs. “If I was rejected emo, you were old before your time.”

“Some would say that’s a good thing,” Stan points out. “You know, wise beyond my years.”

“I said old, not wise.”

“Harsh. One of us has to be responsible, though. I’m doing you all a favour by taking that burden on.”

Richie grimaces, putting on a terrible impression of Stan. “‘I‘m Stan, and I own a company so I must be the most mature,’ is that what you’re saying?”

“Not at all. Beverly is plenty mature.”

“Bev is  _ not _ mature,” Richie scoffs. “Just yesterday she spent half an hour arguing with me over who should get the last serving of frosted flakes.”

“As she should,” Stan says. “Who won?”

“She did, obviously,” Richie grumbles. Stan laughs. “What about Mike? He’s pretty mature.”

“He has a lot of common sense,” Stan agrees. “And Ben, I suppose. You, Bill, and Eddie, though. I’m convinced your brain stopped growing when you were six.

“Ouch.”

“Truth hurts.”

“It’s not supposed to hurt that much,” Richie says. The elevator doors open and they step inside. Stan stretches out one perfectly manicured finger to press the first floor button - this finger has another ring on, a thick gold band that Ben had given him, indented with scale-like marks. 

“You should get tougher skin, then,” Stan says, clasping his hands together. 

“Right, right. I’ll just order some right up, then,” Richie says. Stan laughs. “Skin can’t be too hard to get a hold of these days, can it?”

Stan pretends to think about it. “I’m not sure. I can ask my dealer if you want.”

“You have a skin dealer?”

“I have a lot of things.”

“Yeah, a six figure salary and perfect hair,” Richie says. 

“Do try not to be jealous, dear.”

He adamantly ignores the pet name, refusing to allow his cheeks to flush by sheer willpower alone. “Me? Jealous? Never.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Richie says, grinning. He steps out of the elevator first, heading onto the street. He spots Stan’s car immediately, and beelines towards it. “So, where are you taking me, then?”

“Mm. A restaurant called ‘Per Se’,” Stan says. “French. Fancy. My assistant recommended it to me.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“It is.”

Richie whistles lowly, sliding into the passenger seat. “Anyone would think you’re my sugar daddy, or something.”

“Oh, shut up,” Stan says, frowning at him. He starts the car. “I’m nowhere near old enough for that.”

“Rich enough though. And hot enough. I could be your little boytoy, your arm candy. I’ll call you daddy if you ask nicely.”

“I’ll crash the car if you keep talking.”

“But you love this car.”

“Exactly,” Stan says, pulling onto the road. That’s how Richie knows he’s actually a tiny bit serious, so he shuts up, snapping his teeth together loud enough for Stan to hear. 

He lasts two minutes without saying anything. “Can’t believe you didn’t say anything about the hot comment.”

“Self confidence is important.”

“Which Hallmark card did you read that in?”

Stan laughs. “Self help book, actually.”

“You actually read them?” Richie gags. “Just get a therapist, dude. You know, like the rest of us.”

“Books are cheaper.”

“Do I really have to bring up your salary  _ again _ ?” Richie asks. 

“You’re the one who keeps on about it,” Stan says lightly. “Do you really see a therapist?”

“Once. She said something about childhood trauma and I decided I could do without the debt,” Richie shrugs. “It’s not like I need one, anyway.”

“Really? You seem pretty neurotic to me.”

“Stan gets off on a good one,” Richie crows. “That’s offensive.”

“That’s coming from you. You better not do this in the restaurant,” Stan says. 

“Maybe you should learn not to take me to ultra fancy restaurants, instead,” Richie tells him. “Then we wouldn’t get thrown out of them.”

“That’s half the fun, though, isn’t it?” Stan says. He makes a turn, moving his hands along the wheel smoothly. The car turns without making the horrid clunking sound that Richie’s makes. 

“If you are my sugar daddy, do you think you’ll buy me a new car?”

“I’m not your sugar daddy.”

“Okay, fine,” Richie says. “If, hypothetically, you  _ were  _ my sugar daddy, would you buy me a new car?”

Stan hums. “Probably not. Not unless you did something to deserve it.”

“Ho-holy sh _ it _ ,” Richie says, laughing. “Jesus, Stan.”

“What?”

“You can’t just say shit like that,” Richie says. “‘Specially you.”

“Why especially me? You say shit like that all the time,” Stan says. 

Richie coughs. “It’s just… different when you say it,” he says. 

Stan hums. He sounds kind of suspicious, but he pulls into a space in front of a restaurant without a word. “Whatever you say, Rich. Come on, let’s go. Please try not to embarrass me.”

“I’ll try not to, daddy,” Richie says, grinning. 

Stan flips him off. “Shut the fuck up.”

“I guess I’m not getting a car for my birthday after all,” Richie says, following Stan inside. “I’ll try not to be too disappointed.”

“Do you want me to pay or not?”

“Do you want me to be in debt for the rest of my life, or not?” Richie counters. 

“You’re insufferable,” Stan says, but Richie doesn’t miss the fond sort of softness in his eyes when the waiter leads them to a table, so he decides Stan can’t mean it too much. 

#

Stan is his best friend. Richie can say that with full sincerity, meaning every word. It’s always been Stan and Richie against the world, two ends of the spectrum but enough of a balance to perfect the other. Red and blue make purple. Stan with his OCD induced panic attacks and his weird ticks and his distrust for anything abrasive except for Richie, and Richie with the dirt under his nails and hands that don’t stop moving and words that seem louder than life. They shouldn’t mesh the way they do, but they work. 

Stan is also the man Richie wants to spend the rest of his life with. Like, properly. Kissing him good morning, and holding his hand for real, and getting married under floral arches and late night picnics and lots of other disgusting lovesick stuff that Richie doesn’t want to ever think about. Because Stan has always been sort of  _ it  _ for him. It’s always been Stan. Always. 

Except he’s Stan’s best friend. And the way Stan doesn’t look at him says that that’s all they’ll ever be. So Richie takes the expensive restaurants and pretends they’re on dates when he can, and he imagines holding Stan’s hand and twisting his rings. He thinks about running his fingers through Stan’s hair and falling asleep together and waving him off to work and he tries to make do with that. 

Because it’s all he’ll ever get, Richie knows that. And he’s trying to come to terms with it. He really is. It just… hurts sometimes. Late at night, when he could be asleep in Stan’s bed but instead he’s in his own, wearing one of Stan’s t-shirts and trying to feel as close to him as he can. It hurts, and he falls asleep with tears on his cheeks, a crack in his heart, and fantasies of what he could have lulling him off. 

He replays their evening like it’s a dream, eating escargot because Stan dared him to order it and Richie never refuses a dare, especially not from Stan, and sharing a teeny tiny dessert because fancy restaurants don’t know what serving sizes are. Remembers the espressos they’d ordered afterwards and the way Stan’s nose crinkles every time he drinks coffee, because as much as he pretends to like it, he much prefers tea but won’t let anyone but Richie know. He memorises the way Stan looks when he pays, proud and accomplished but not arrogant, like he knows he’s good enough, and he tries not to feel jealous over Stan’s certainty. 

It’s mesmerizing, mostly, to watch. And mostly, Richie is just glad that he gets to be here at all. By Stan’s side, watching and celebrating his achievements and his successes and watching him blossom. But there’s still that dark part in his heart, yearning for more, horribly selfish but all Richie wants is to indulge it, and he can’t. 

He’ll take Stan being his best friend if that’s all he can get. Stan is worth it no matter how he has him, and if standing by the sidelines is all he can have, then Richie is one hundred percent okay with that. Really. 

It’s a shame Beverly can see right through him, he thinks, when she lets herself into his room and sits on his feet. 

Her lipstick is smudged and there’s a purpling hickey on her neck, and she looks very accomplished and on the edge of tipsy and drunk. Drunk Bev advice is advice Richie has decided never to listen to, ever, so he resigns himself to a night of potentially dangerous, implausible suggestions. It would be nothing new, and maybe the dose of familiarity is what he needs. 

Never mind the fact that Stan is the most familiar thing in his life right now, at all. 

“Have a good night, then?” Beverly asks, insinuating something Richie doesn’t want to name. He knows she’s waiting for him to say it, to set the scene so she knows where they are, but he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, in lieu of a proper answer. The unimpressed glare tells him everything he needs to know. “Fine. Stan and I went out for dinner.”

“As…?”

“As friends,” Richie says, trying to make himself believe it. “You know he doesn’t like me that way, Bev.”

“You might be surprised,” she says. “Just give it a chance. This is going to tear you apart if you let it go on.”

“I’ve let it go on for twenty five fucking years now. I’m made of stronger stuff than that.”

“You weren’t in love with him when you were three, dumbass.”

“What, and now that I’m twenty eight, I am?” Richie scoffs. “Just because I might be in love with him doesn’t mean I can’t deal with it.”

Beverly frowns at him. “That’s the problem. You’re not dealing with it. At all.”

“I’m dealing with it fine,” he snaps.

“I’m just trying to help, Rich. You’re just ignoring it in the hopes it’ll go away eventually, and in the mean time you’re getting Stan out on dates that aren’t really dates, but they could be,” Beverly says. “If only you weren’t a coward.”

“I am not a coward.”

“Then tell him you love him.”

“I did,” Richie says. He lets out a shuddery breath. “Earlier today. And he didn’t even fucking listen to me.”

“Well, how did you tell him? Where? When, even?”

Richie sighs, shuffling over to lean against Bev. “About four. While he was working. I just… said it. And after he asked if I said something. He obviously doesn’t care.”

“You dumbass,” Beverly chides. “You know how he gets when he’s working. You need to tell him again when he’s concentrating. Stan wouldn’t just dismiss it like that, you know he wouldn’t. He’s not like that.”

“I am not telling him again,” Richie says. “No way. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’ll laugh at me. Or he’ll never want to talk to me again. Whatever. He’ll block my number and never take me on not really dates ever again,” Richie says. “God. Did I fuck up?”

“Only a tiny bit,” Beverly says gently. “Where did he take you?”

“This place called ‘Per Se’, or something. Mega fancy-”

“As always.”

“Yeah, as always. I made a joke about how he was like my sugar daddy. Maybe that threw him off. I fucked up, didn’t I?”

She giggles. “No, Rich. You’re fine. He’s used to that sort of thing with you, and if he wasn’t, he would have told you. You just need to tell him the truth. Otherwise you’ll start going out on these not really dates, and you’ll think they’re dates, and he’ll think they’re not, and then you’ll be worse than where you started.”

“You’re drunk,” Richie says.

“You’re in love,” she sing-songs. “And I give the best advice drunk, you just don’t listen to me.”

“You’re  _ drunk _ ,” Richie repeats. “No one gives good advice when they’re drunk.”

“Except for me. If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Marsh.”

She laughs again, loudly. “I won’t. You know I wouldn’t. But really. Tell him, Rich. You might be surprised at what you find.”

“What I’ll find is he doesn’t ever want to speak to me again,” Richie says. “And I can do without that heartbreak, thanks.”

“Not telling him will just break your heart in a different place,” she says, stroking her hand through his hair. “Get some sleep, babe. Think it over.”

“I’ve thought it over enough.”

“Think it over properly,” she instructs. “Properly. And don’t chicken out, ‘cause I know what you’re like, and this might open the door to the best thing you’ve ever had.”

Richie grumbles under his breath when Bev extracts herself from his limbs, but lets her go. He refuses to think about what she said, but it takes root deep in his brain, anyway, even when he’d really rather it didn’t.

#

“Stan!”

Stan groans down the phone. “What.”

“I have a gig,” Richie declares. “Tonight. At the bar. You coming?”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“So? Are you coming or not?”

There’s a noise that sounds distinctly like a head hitting a desk. “Yes. Obviously, stupid. What time?”

“I knew I could count on you, Stan. We’re on at eight. Drinks on me,” Richie says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Thank me after you’ve blown out my ear drums,” Stan says, and then he hangs up. It’s no secret that the genre Richie plays (alt-rock: Stan’s most hated genre) is the polar opposite of what Stan listens to (the kind of haunting classical music that the pianos in horror movies play when no one’s touching the keys). But he’s there for nearly every show that Richie plays, no matter how much he complains and how reluctant he is to be dragged there. He still shows.

Richie puts down his phone with a smile like he’s in some kind of horrible rom-com. Stan was wrong about the time - it’s actually ten to seven - and Friday nights are always the busiest and best for business, so Richie decides it’s never too early to practice and reaches out to grab his acoustic.

Normally, he’d rehearse with the band, during soundcheck, but today he just wants something to do with his hands, because his fingers won’t stay still. Rubbing his fingertips raw on the strings of his guitar sounds more than appealing right now, despite how much Beverly will chastise him for it later.

The mild pain gives him something to latch onto that isn’t the slow breaking of his heart or the heavy sense of dread piling up on all of his senses, the one telling him that something has gone horrendously, irreversibly, wrong.

#

Bev kisses both of his cheeks before he heads backstage, like she always does, leaving sticky traces of lipstick on his cheekbones. It’s her own personal good luck charm, and along with her grin and tequila infused breath, Richie thinks no performance would be the same without her.

“Break a leg, Rich,” she tells him, soft and sweet and right in his ear. “Have fun.”

“I always do, Bevvy. Is Stan here yet?” he asks, fiddling with the tuning pegs on his guitar.

Bev shakes her head. “I don’t think so. Not yet. But he’ll come, you know he will. We’ll be waiting front and centre for you, okay? Like always.”

“Like always,” he repeats, nodding slowly. Bev smiles and pats his cheek gently before leaving, and Richie watches her go.

He inhales deeply. He feels even more nervous now, more nervous than he usually does, and he doesn’t know why. Len, the drummer, slings an arm around Richie’s shoulders.

He’s tall. Taller than Richie is, that’s for sure, and wider too. Enough that he could probably snap Richie in half like a twig, and Richie tries not to feel insecure about it. Len is nice. For all that his appearance screams ‘troublemaker’, what with his blood red bandanas and ripped jeans and the tattoos on his knuckles, he’s a sweetheart. Arguably the best at cuddles, and fucking brilliant at making hot chocolate.

“You nervous, dude?”

Richie scoffs. “Me, nervous? Not even in your dreams. You?”

Len grins, nudging Richie with his elbow. “Not at all. That’s why your hands are shaking like mad, huh? Someone special in the audience, or something?”

“No one more so than usual,” Richie says, trying not to think of Stan at all.

“Really?”

Richie sighs. He’s never been good at hiding his emotions. “I don’t know. I told my best friend I’m in love with him yesterday and he hasn’t even mentioned it. So I guess I’m just kinda scared about that.”

“That sucks,” Len purses his lips. “Have you just tried planting one on him? Like, in the heat of the moment or something. He’ll probably be into it.”

Richie looks doubtfully at him. “Stan’s not that kind of person. He’d probably shove me away and delete my number, or something.”

“Worth a shot, isn’t it?” Len says. He claps a hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Listen. Don’t let it get to you. Life’s too short for that, dude. Just… have fun out there. Chloe won’t be happy if you don’t. It’ll work out, you know?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Thanks, Len. I’m just gonna… freshen up. Give me five minutes?”

“I’ll stall for you, bro,” Len says. Richie laughs even though it’s not funny, and heads off to find the restrooms. They’re kind of gross, and grimy, and they smell like week old piss and the window doesn’t close so it’s always cold as balls, but it’s quiet. And empty.

Richie falls back against the door, refusing to touch any other part of the room, and breathes out heavily. Len is right that Chloe - the keyboardist and the unofficial manager-slash-leader-slash-top dog - won’t be happy at all if he lets this affect their performance, and he’s absolutely determined not to. But there’s a teeny tiny part of him that might just freeze up when he sees Stan in the crowd, catches sight of the vaguely uncomfortable grimace on his face but the wash of pride in his eyes.

He refuses to let himself be ruled by the teeny tiny part of him that might freeze up. But, knowing Richie’s luck, it might just happen anyway. God. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked Stan to come. It’s not like he hasn’t missed gigs before. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, really, but they’re playing new songs tonight. Love songs, sort of, and Richie just knows he’ll end up singing them to Stan and Stan alone, and he doesn’t want that. If there’s anything Richie knows about Stan, it’s that he absolutely hates PDA; which is something Richie first discovered when he’d tried to hold Stan’s hand as a kid, and then again when they were fifteen and he’d hugged him without thinking, and then again when they were both discovering girls at eighteen and Patty Blum had kissed Stan at a party and Richie had had to clean up the broken glass she left in her wake. 

They’re not even dating. It would be downright inappropriate, really, and Beverly would make of him for the rest of his godforsaken life. 

Richie throws up in the toilet. And then he cries a bit. Everything has sort of gone to shit. 

“Richie, for fucks sake, where are you?!”

“He went to piss, Chlo-“

“We’re on in one minute,” Chloe shrieks, and then there’s the distinct sound of someone slamming a guitar into a wall and the bathroom door swings open.

“I can’t do this,” Richie says, as soon as the door closes. Chloe stares. “I’m sorry, Chlo.”

“The fuck do you mean you can’t do this?” Chloe asks. She’s impatient. “You have to.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. We have thirty seconds, for you to get your ass in gear, Rich. Come on.”

“I  _ can’t _ .”

“Why not?!”

“Because I- Chloe, I just can’t go out there tonight. I can’t. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

She nails him with a rock solid glare. “...Fine. But sort your shit out. Take tonight off, but I’m expecting you here tomorrow, feeling better.”

“Okay-“

“And you owe me,” she finishes. “Amelia won’t wanna take over vocals. You owe me.”

Richie nods. “I will. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.”

“You better, Tozier,” Chloe says. She scruffs his hair too, in a vague attempt at maternal comfort. It more just pulls his hair uncomfortably than anything, but Richie appreciates the gesture. 

“Are you even allowed in here?” he asks, but she just winks, and leaves with a kind of chastising glare, like she’s trying to preserve some sense of unnecessary mystery. Richie lets his head thunk back against the wall, grimacing. His mouth still tastes like bile and vomit and its really fucking gross, and he wants to get home and brush his teeth. Instead, he sits there and waits for his band to start playing so he can slip out of the bar, unnoticed. 

He only receives one odd look, from a girl who’s kind of commercially attractive, wearing a tank top with a rip right down the front, lipstick so bright it looks positively toxic, and shorts that are so short she may as well not wear them in the first place, but no one moves to stop him. Richie supposes distressed looking people covered in their own vomit running out the front doors is probably a regular occurrence, anyway.

It all works in his favour, and he manages to get back to his apartment before the clock even strikes nine. All in a days work, really. He settles in to await the berating he’ll no doubt receive from Bev, and perhaps from Stan, too, later. But that’s later, and for now, he flicks on the television and brings up reruns of  _ Friends _ , which gets to be so mind-numbingly boring that he falls asleep halfway through the episode.

#

He doesn’t wake up until the front door opens, and then closes - gently enough that it couldn’t have been Beverly - and someone sits on his feet. An arm reaches across his chest to grab the remote and switch the TV off, and then Richie blinks his eyes open.

To Stan staring at him, corkscrew curls falling in his eyes and the sort of mischievous twist to his lips that usually only happens when someone’s gotten a drink into him. “You weren’t there,” he accuses, poking Richie’s cheek.

Richie huffs, pushing up so that Stan leans back to avoid knocking heads. “Sorry, I just…”

“We waited for you,” Stan continues. “Bev was worried. She went home with a girl, though. I think she said her name was Ursula.”

“Ursula?”

“Like the Little Mermaid,” Stan says. “She texted you. Why didn’t you go out and play? I thought you were excited.”

“I was, I just…” Richie sighs. He leans forward to drop his head on Stan’s shoulder. “I don’t know. I got nervous.”

“You got nervous? You haven’t been nervous since your sixth birthday and you couldn’t blow one of the candles out.”

“Well, I got nervous tonight.”

Stan hums, nudging Richie so he sits back up. “Richie-”

“Stan-”

“You go first.”

“No, you go first,” Richie says. Stan exhales and a strand of his hair twitches when he moves slightly, knocking their knees together.

“Okay,” Stan says. His voice lowers into something that’s not quite a whisper, but almost. “Why were you nervous tonight?”

Richie breathes. “Because… because you were there.”

“Because I was there?”

“You make me nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

“Yeah, Stan-”

Stan kisses him. Richie’s eyes fall closed, and Stan’s hands come up to rest on his cheeks, a warm, steady weight. He tastes like strawberry chapstick, and whipped cream and vodka, and Richie can’t help but feel self conscious of the stale toothpaste in his own mouth.

Stan doesn’t seem to mind, though, crawling across the sofa to situate himself in Richie’s lap and bury his fingers in the hair at the nape of Richie’s neck. Richie’s own hands fall to Stan’s waist, squeezing gently and listening to his sharp intake of breath.

“Are you drunk?” Richie asks, hardly a minute later, pulling away but not far enough. Stan rubs their noses together.

“A bit.”

“Are you drunk enough to regret this in the morning?”

Stan smiles, and he kisses Richie again, which is probably answer enough.

#

He wakes up first, still on the sofa, but with Stan curled tightly against him, like a coiled spring, and Richie can’t help but grin. He pushes his nose into the juncture of Stan’s neck, breathing in the warmth rising from his skin, and the soft lavender of his laundry detergent, the deeper notes of his cologne and Richie’s, rubbing off on him.

Richie’s about ninety nine percent sure Stan has contacts who make perfumes. Maybe he’ll see what he can do about getting this one bottled. Except, that’s very slightly creepy, really. They’ve kissed - well, made out, which covers first and second base, probably - once, but he’s been in love with Stan since before he can even remember, which must count for something. Hopefully.

“Good night?” Beverly asks. Richie doesn’t know when she got home, but the shirt she’s wearing doesn’t belong to her, and her smile looks like the Cheshire Cat.

“You could say that.”

“Stan awake yet?”

Richie shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Who’s shirt is that?”

“My girlfriend’s,” Bev says. “We’re going out for breakfast, so I’ll see you later. Stan has a meeting later, at four, so don’t let him forget. And Chloe said she wanted you to be there tonight, so you have to go to the bar. And we’re going to talk about how you didn’t show yesterday. I’ve been learning about astrology, and I want to read your birth chart.”

“You think I know what my birth chart is?” Richie asks, making a face. “Do we have to?”

“Yes. I’ll see you later, okay? And say hi to Stan for me.”

Richie rolls his eyes, tilting his cheek towards her when she leans down to peck it. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“You have nothing to worry about. I actually know how to be a functioning human being,” Bev tells him, “And, Rich?”

“Yeah?”

She smiles at him, knowingly. “Make sure you tell him.”

Richie flips her the bird until the door closes behind her, and then Stan stirs.

“Tell who what?” he asks, voice thick and quiet with sleep. A far cry from the savvy businessman Richie’s come to expect from him, but he doesn’t find himself loving it any less.

“You were awake,” Richie says. “And I’m telling no one anything.”

“I’ll ask Bev, then.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Fine,” Richie sighs. He sits up, shuffling them around so Stan’s head falls into his lap. He’s already done this once, so what’s a second time now? “She wants me to tell you that I love you. That I’m… in love with you.”

Stan blinks. “I know.”

“...What.”

“I know. You, uh, said it the other day,” Stan presses his lips together. “At the office?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Richie asks. “Stan!”

“I thought you were joking! I thought you were just trying to- to get my attention, or be annoying, or fuck with me,” Stan says. “I don’t know.”

“Are you fucking kidding? Stan, I- I’ve loved you since forever.”

“I’ve loved  _ you  _ since forever!”

“Do you even know how much stress this has caused me?” Richie asks, digging his fingers into Stan’s curls. “Jesus.”

“What about me? All I’ve done for the past week is think about kissing you senseless,” Stan says.

“So, last night wasn’t just a stupid drunk decision?” Richie asks. He sounds so horrifically insecure, shy and timid in a way he hasn’t ever been.

“You have to be smarter than that, Rich, of course it wasn’t. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

“Bet I’ve been waiting for longer.”

“Really?” Stan asks, raising his eyebrow in a vaguely condescending way that Richie knows is a joke. “I doubt it.”

“Since we were three. Swear it.”

“You didn’t even know what kissing was when we were three,” Stan says, “so I call bullshit.”

Richie groans. “Fine. Since we were seven and we found that porn mag in my dad’s wardrobe and there were the two men-”

Stan claps his hands over his ears. “I’ve been repressing that memory since the day we saw it and I don’t need you to remind me right now so shut the fuck up before I make you.”

“Shit, Stan. Who’d have thought you were so kinky?”

Stan levels him with an impressively unimpressed stare.

“Fine. Bev said you have a meeting today, by the way.”

“I know. You don’t have to come,” Stan shrugs. “But we could get dinner after.”

Richie laughs. “Like a date?”

“Like a date-date.”

“As long as you don’t take me to a place where the appetisers cost more than what I spend on groceries monthly,” Richie instructs. Stan looks like he disregards it immediately, and all Richie can feel is fondly annoyed. “What’s your meeting about?”

“Boring stuff,” Stan says. “I’ll probably fall asleep in the middle.”

“Everything about your job is boring,” Richie says.

“You don’t complain when I take you out for dinner or buy you designer items.”

“You’re just fuelling the sugar daddy rumours, now,” Richie says. “Hey, are we boyfriend and boyfriend now?”

“If you want to be.”

“If we are, will you buy me a new car for my birthday?”

Stan narrows his eyes. “Hm. I could do, I guess. It’s a bit impersonal of you to date me purely for my money, but I guess I’ll make do.”

“Don’t be like that, baby,” Richie says, leaning down to peck Stan on the lips. “I’m dating you for your massive dick, too.”

“How shallow. You don’t even know what my dick looks like.”

“Yuh-huh, I do. That time we went skinny dipping?” Richie grins. “Or was I just so adequate that you forgot it entirely?”

“That’s another memory I’ve repressed,” Stan says, instantly. “I do that a lot when I make memories with you.”

“You shouldn’t hit a man when he’s down. It’s impolite.”

“Is it, now?” Stan says, sounding like he couldn’t care less. “I’ll just kiss it better, then.”

Richie laughs, but he leans over obediently, letting Stan kiss him like he can’t breathe, and it’s so much better than he could have ever hoped for.

#

“What car would you want?” Stan asks, later, after his meeting. Richie’s sitting on his desk, swinging his legs and eating the tiny posh crackers he keeps in the desk drawer. “You know, if I did get you one.”

“Dunno,” Richie says. “I never thought about it. I didn't think I’d actually get this far in convincing you.”

“Well, we’re dating now,” Stan says, and he can’t deny himself the small smile that spreads over his face when he says it. “You'll get special privileges. You can even live out all of your gross businessman fantasies, too.”

Richie laughs, flopping back on the desk with a thud. The container of crackers falls and spills across the carpet, but Stan doesn’t mention it. “You sure know the way to a man’s heart, Stan.”

Stan looks at him. “Just yours, hopefully. Anyway, come on. I want to get out of here, and I think I mentioned dinner, earlier.”

“But I just ate all your fancy crackers.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you. It’ll be our first official date.”

Richie laughs again, sighing (and refusing to tack the word ‘dreamily’ on the end), and sitting up, letting Stan lead him out of his office like he’d follow him to the end of the Earth.

He probably would, really. He’d follow Stan anywhere at this point.

**Author's Note:**

> special thank you:
> 
> to my girlfriend, for wanting to be beverlys girlfriend and also being the BEST person in the ENTIRE world i LOVE YOU  
to the people on twitter who supplied their names for richies band members (even though it was originally going to be as bevs girlfriend: sorry). enjoy your cameos, regardless  
to pgg, for being incredible friends and continuing to inspire me each and every day and hyping up my work always
> 
> lastly, thank you for reading! please leave a comment if u enjoyed <3


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